


Portrait of a Man on his Knees

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensory Deprivation, Temporary Blindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:53:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: The twitch at the corner of Clint's mouth betrays his desire to smile.Something about how happily he gives up control makes Bucky react with a very different twitch of his own.(Clint temporarily loses both sight and hearing. What can I say, somehow that leads to Bucky fucking his face.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	Portrait of a Man on his Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CruciatusForeplay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CruciatusForeplay/gifts).



> "I need motivation," she said.  
> "If I sketch you the broad strokes of a scenario as a reward, will you do what needs doing?" I offered.  
> "Yes," she said.  
> "Give me a pairing."  
> "Bucky and Clint."  
> "Alright, go," I foolishly agreed, expecting to write 50 words tops. 
> 
> Instead, this happened. I have no regrets.
> 
> Beta by CloudAtlas - thank you. <3

It was unfortunate that, while the actual mission was successful, Clint was still watching the chemical plant across the street through specialised binoculars when another party decided to drop in with a flash grenade. Bucky only hears his fellow agent's cry when it's already too late, two steps away and busy relaying their gathered intel over a secure line.

Now Clint's temporarily blinded and extraction isn't for another ten hours, which wouldn't be as big a deal if his hearing aids hadn't already been damaged during a melee the previous day.

He's taking the fact that Bucky has to lead him everywhere like a trooper, the enforced handholding soon seamlessly advancing to Bucky's arm around his waist after some close calls of almost running into furniture and doorframes. 

It's not a conscious decision what happens next, Bucky just gets impatient with Clint not picking up his hints about the plate of food in front of him. He digs his thumb and middle finger into Clint's jaw, way back between his molars, and makes him open up so he can deposit a piece of fruit into the surprised O of his mouth. Clint makes a noise that Bucky can't place and starts fidgeting in his seat, chewing carefully. Long blond lashes fan demurely on flushed cheeks as Clint opens wide.

Bucky's circulation takes a very distracting detour.

His own mouth suddenly dry, he feeds Clint another apple slice. At the third slice, Clint's lip briefly catches on his finger. Holding the fourth, Bucky's thumb swipes apple juice off Clint's bottom lip. On a shaky inhale, Clint opens up wider, tongue darting out in invitation.

They've never openly addressed their clear mutual attraction despite having danced around it since pretty much the day they first met. To be honest, Bucky's not entirely sure how the whole LGBTooManyLetters Pride of this century fits with some of the hateful things he's heard even in SHIELD's locker rooms. Yes, his interactions with the fairer sex before the war have been very flatteringly documented and embellished in the travelling Smithsonian Exhibition, but they curiously failed to mention soldiers helping each other out in the field and Bucky? Well, he's always been a team player and all around helpful fella.  
And Clint is sitting there breathing evenly but a little strained through his nose, stock still with his mouth open and inviting, throat working silently and Bucky... Bucky's near painfully hard at the sight alone.

The thing is, they can't _talk_ about whatever this is now.

Bucky's hands haven't shaken in a long time and he won’t let them start now as he lifts another apple crescent and places it delicately on Clint's tongue.

And Clint?  
He stays perfectly still.

It's Bucky's turn to swallow hard.

He runs the back of his fingers down Clint's throat, the barest hint of stubble rasping over his knuckles, and Clint takes the hint, sucking in the slice and chewing quietly. His throat shifts against Bucky's hand as he swallows a few endless seconds later.

This time, he smiles after swallowing and feels forward until his hand finds Bucky's knee.

Bucky remembers Clint mentioning he always worries about being too loud when he can't hear himself, a remainder of growing up in a house where the primary lesson was that to go unnoticed was the safest and preferred option. 

His, "Alright?" is barely audible.

Bucky taps his fingertips against Clint's jaw once, the agreed-upon affirmative sign they use in silent ops.

Clint breathes a shaky laugh and sinks to his knees. His hands stay on Bucky's knees, lashes fluttering as if he's fighting the instinct to get visual confirmation for whatever is happening. The shift in position moves his jaw out of reach, so Bucky makes sure to give Clint's hand a reassuring squeeze.

As if that confirmation solved some internal conflict, Clint gives a punched out gasp, sliding both hands up the bunched muscle of Bucky's thighs and unerringly towards his belt. His fingertips follow the edge of the pocket seam to the sturdy leather running under the belt loops. Bucky's own heart rate speeds up as his eyes flit back from the wandering hands on his body towards Clint's face and finds him biting his lip with the eager concentration usually reserved for working complex tactical problems. He can't _not_ lift his hips at that, sliding down lower and towards the edge of his seat in clear invitation. Clint inches closer on his knees, licking his lips and hungrily reaching for the belt again. 

Bucky starts at the vehemence with which he pulls it tight to force the buckle loose, tight enough for the leather to bite into the soft skin in of Bucky's belly underneath his thin t-shirt. In his surprise, Bucky's elbow knocks the plate with the last forlorn apple slices off the table, smashing it to a dozen pieces. 

Clint, who can't _hear_ it but feels the involuntary jump, smooths both hands across Bucky's torso in wordless apology. He makes a dismayed sound that overlaps with Bucky's involuntary curse, rubbing his face over Bucky's knee in supplication. There's nothing hesitant in the way Clint's hands scrabble to slip the belt open, nor as he deftly opens the button and slides down the zipper as if he's afraid Bucky might change his mind if he makes him wait too long.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Bucky holds on the seat of the chair to keep from toppling as he lifts his hips, allowing Clint to impatiently tug practical pants and underwear down to his ankles in one efficient swoop. Clint doesn't stop until the fabric catches on Bucky's steel-toed boots, his large palms cupping around the curve of Bucky's calves. He shuffles to sit on his haunches, knees either side of Bucky's feet, letting go only briefly to unapologetically rearrange himself in his own restrictive pants with a pained wince. His lids flutter again, frustration flitting across his face as if he's checking to see whether sight may have returned while he was preoccupied.

He sighs with noticeable impatient frustration, cricks his neck as if annoyed - yet his hands firmly return to their hold on Bucky's legs.

And then - Bucky feels his heart must stop with how fast all blood goes south - Clint grins. 

He leans forward slightly, running a teasing tongue tip over his lips and waits with an invitingly open mouth. Bucky heaves a shuddering breath, his answering smirk anticipatory as he slouches comfortably in the chair, cheap vinyl sticking to his naked skin. But Clint, he can't _see_ the invitation for what is. He just sits patiently waiting, wetting his lips once more as Bucky makes no move to give him any instructions.

The twitch at the corner of Clint's mouth betrays his desire to smile.

Something about how happily he gives up control makes Bucky react with a very different twitch of his own.

Bucky leans in, letting his right hand trail down his own thigh, past his knee, and down to where Clint's hand is still resting on his calf. His fingertips trace along Clint's long fingers, over the back of his hand, his wrist, the prominent veins under the silky hair of his forearm. He traces over the rolled-up sleeve of the black SHIELD issue hoodie and up the bunched, worn fabric stretched tight over hard biceps to rest briefly on Clint’s broad shoulder.

Clint hasn't moved a muscle, sitting sniper-still and patient.

Bucky touches the side of the hood, then the collar of Clint's equally black tee, and finally his skin, where Clint’s pulse flutters as Bucky covers the expanse of his throat with one large palm. Bucky hesitates, overcome with how much he wants to tighten his grip, the dark curiosity of needing to find out how far Clint's obedience will go. Bucky's hand makes the decision without the delay of bothering rational thought for its opinion, moving on past the sharp angle of Clint's jaw to the back of his head. The hair there is just long enough to hold and Clint's hips stutter forward in wordless gratitude at the sudden sharp sting.

Bucky leans back into his seat, tight grip pulling Clint with him.

There is not even token resistance as Clint hastily, _eagerly_ , gathers saliva. Nothing could be more conclusive than this. Bucky holds his breath, the unyielding metal of his left holding him steady as Clint hungrily takes him in.

Bucky'd be hard pressed to say whose noise of relieved pleasure is more desperate.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he notices that Clint makes no attempt to brace himself, swallowing him down as far as Bucky demands with no hint of self-preservation. Bucky probably shouldn't immediately want to see how far he can exploit that.

But he knows he will.

As if he's anticipating what's to follow, Clint draws a deep breath through his nose as Bucky pulls him back by the hair, willingly letting himself be moved along the hard length in his mouth.

And Bucky does want to go slow.

And he does want to be gentle, in case Clint's overestimating himself.

But.

The warm, wet pressure makes his eyes roll back, hips twitching up in vain as his body urges him to bury himself deeper.

Clint whimpers, but to Bucky's ears it sounds like the sweetest music, and even as he tries against all instinct to pull Clint up to let him breathe, Clint dives back down, submission all but replaced with hungry determination. And oh god, this is definitely not the first time Clint Barton has given head.

It's all Bucky can do to hang on for the ride as Clint pulls a dozen dirty tricks Bucky's sure he's never so much as heard of, trying his best not to embarrass himself. His hands search for the counter to hold on to something, _anything_ , afraid he'll do Clint some serious damage if he doesn't get himself under control soon. 

Clint, however, isn't having it. Without missing a beat, one hand runs up Bucky's t-shirt clad chest to find his arm again, viciously pinching Bucky's nipple en route and effortlessly taking the deep, involuntary thrust of Bucky's hips this earns him. Brooking no argument, he takes Bucky's wrist in a tight grip and places his hand back on the back of his bobbing head.

It'd take a stronger man than Bucky Barnes to resist an invitation like that.

Copper explodes on his tongue and he realizes he's bitten his lip bloody, but there's no stopping as he accepts the tight hold on Clint's hair. The muffled hum sounds triumphant as Clint's speed and intensity pick up. Bucky's field of vision shrinks to the golden motion of Clint's head, framed by ghost artefacts caused by his complete inability to blink. Like a damaged tape recording, perception skips, trips, and Bucky is blissfully flung into an abyss of unknown ecstasy, spilling in hot spurts down Clint's throat.

Clint swallows, suppresses a cough and swallows again in quick succession, his eyes streaming from the effort. His face is a flushed mess, eyes unfocused as he fiercely blinks away more tears welling up. As he gently releases Bucky into his hand, his lips are red and swollen, a pink tongue darting out to gather a few last escaping drops of moisture at the corner of his mouth.

Bucky pants harshly, weakly aware of the pulsing sensation at the back of his legs where Clint's fingers have bitten into the tense muscle.

The room is spinning and Bucky tries to rein in his quick pulse with middling results. Clint is mouthing at the crease where Bucky's leg joins his hip, his hands fisted into the shirt to either side of Bucky as if he has to restrain himself from suckling him into oversensitivity. It's a compelling sight.

"Fuck. Come, get up here." 

Bucky's curses _literally_ fall on deaf ears and as soon as the worst trembles subside, he takes Clint less than gently by the scruff of his shirt, uncaring that the fabric pulls viciously across his throat in his haste.

Clint gasps but obeys immediately, the front of his pants bulging in a way that makes Bucky wince in sympathy. He sits Clint on his knees, the height difference between them suddenly overwhelming as he has to look up to watch Clint's reaction.

Jaw slack, Clint's still breathing hard, the flush from his cheeks reaching all the way down to disappear past the angry line of red cut across his throat by the warped fabric of his shirt.  
His longer legs easily bracket Bucky's hips and his hands are slack at his sides, waiting for Bucky's command.

It's too early even for a serum enhanced soldier to go again but Bucky awards his dick points for a valid attempt at the sight.

He makes short work of Clint's trousers and even if the angle makes it difficult to free him, neither wants to wait another second. The moment Bucky gets his hands on bare skin Clint jack-knifes forward with a desperate gasp, bracing himself on Bucky's chest. He pushes Bucky’s already rumpled shirt up and out of the way, digging his fingers painfully into the meat of Bucky's pecs and the sharp jolt of it is _everything_.

Bucky sets a brutal pace, working Clint over mercilessly. He can barely hold himself up at this point; instead just resting his forehead against Bucky's, eyes firmly shut, keening as his hips rock into each punishing stroke. His trembling mouth is _right there_ and it'd be so easy for Bucky, he could just... just...

Bucky bites Clint's lip, sees the second the pain spikes, and watches him come all across Bucky's chest, spent cock, and his own pants.

For a long moment, their hammering hearts and harsh, gasping breaths are the only sound in the room.

Bucky looks down at himself; at the dark smudges blossoming on his pecs where Clint's fingers dug into his skin and the trailing streaks of white connecting them.

"What a mess," he breathes, a mixture of impressed and intimidated at the intensity of the whole encounter. Clint tilts his head in question, possibly in reaction to the wrecked rumble underneath his fingertips. 

"Somebody should probably get us cleaned up," Bucky mutters, intentionally keeping his voice to a low, vibration-rich register. 

Since he's still conveniently braced on his chest, Bucky closes both his hands firmly around Clint's wrists. 

Clint starts grinning.


End file.
